Quand Vous Mourrez
by plumbloom
Summary: Years after her death, the Lady Black has left her impression upon Sirius. oneshot, implied Remus/Sirius.


"It's mine."

"It isn't."

"Is."

"Isn't. I found it."

"Finding it doesn't make it _yours_, Regulus!"

"Well, wanting it doesn't make it yours, either."

Sirius knew he sounded childish, but pure irrationality and pride drove him blindly onwards. "It's not mine because I want it…it's mine because it was mine in the first place."

His little brother glared back up at him, brown eyes reflecting black, little cheeks positively red with anger. Regulus' hair was done in soft ringlets, curling around his chubby face, and his clothes were immaculate, as always, though there was a little patch of stickiness on one side of his mouth – probably from some sweet the nanny had lavished upon him. The nanny liked Regulus. Most of the family did.

Sirius nervously ran a hand through his own pin-straight hair, falling out of its sloppy ponytail at the base of his neck. If Regulus made a fuss (as he was often wont to) Sirius would catch it, and good.

"Regulus," he tried again, with a tinge of desperation in his voice, "please give it back to me."

The boy blinked up at him. "Why?"

"Because it's _mine_, and because it's a present from James – damn it, just hand it over!" Sirius made a mad lunge for his little brother but checked himself just in time to hear his mother's whispery,

"Children?"

Both Black boys turned in the direction of the door. "Mama's coming," Regulus said tensely. Despite being a little twit, he knew when to be frightened.

The double-doors swung open and Madame Black entered, the light from the hallway spilling into the dark room and pouring over them in a bizarre kind of shame.

"Children," she repeated, calmly.

Her face was horrible, but Sirius forced himself to meet her eyes as they replied, solemnly drawing their hands behind their backs. The object in question – a four-page letter – was covertly dropped to the floor and toed under an ornate sofa by Regulus.

"Yes, Mother?" they chimed in unison – Regulus' voice sweet and conniving, Sirius' lower and less musical.

Madame Black crossed the carpet, her long gauzy gown giving off the impression that she was floating. "I'm tired, my darlings, so very tired."

They moved aside as one to allow her access to the couch, and she fell upon it with the kind of grace only very rich women possess, and laid a slim white hand delicately upon her brow. "Play for Mama, darlings."

Her face was terribly white against the crushed red velvet of the couch, and Sirius shuddered as Regulus bent and kissed her cheek. Turning from the scene, he went slowly over to the grand piano and opened the top part of the way.

Regulus slid onto the piano bench, grinning cheekily, and played a few sour notes. Sirius slapped at his hand and gave him a stern look, motioning to the prone woman on the couch. His brother sulked briefly, but finally tossed a lock of jet hair behind his ear and got up to allow Sirius to sit down.

Sirius briefly warmed up the piano, running through a variety of scales softly, so not to upset his mother. She had a weak constitution, or so she was always saying, and often asked them to play and sing for her – Regulus more often than not, but Sirius supposed that this time she was too 'ill' to be selective. He hesitated before choosing a piece.

"What shall I play for you, Mother?"

There was a moment of silence, and Sirius let his eyes lift to the vaulted gothic ceiling with its slowly whirling paintings of demons and werewolves and satyrs. A fleshly buttock, probably attached to a faun, moved through the violet mist over his mother's head and then disappeared.

"'Quand Vous Mourrez', there now…" Her tone was one of comfort, but it was not directed at him.

Easily, he settled into the familiar flood of notes, and let his hands expertly wring from the piano what he required of it. Regulus, beside him, puffed out his chest and began to sing in a sweet little voice that did not match the spoilt character:

"_Quand vous mourrez de nos amours  
J'irai planter dans le jardin fleur fleurir de beau matin  
Moitie metal, moitie papier  
Pour me blesser un peu le pied mourez de mort trees douce  
Qu'une fleur pousse…"_

Sirius hummed rather than sing along. He couldn't carry a tune, but this knowledge did not bother him – he knew that Regulus had no musical inclinations whatsoever, and only had the sort of ephemeral voice that one attributes to the sweetened natures of the young.

Halfway through the third verse Sirius heard his mother humming along, and he shifted a little so that he could see her getting up and coming over to Regulus, resting a deathly-looking hand on his shoulder and smiling indulgently.

He shuddered again and turned back to the smooth cold keys that forgave him freely and vomited forth that which he wanted.

***

For their wedding Remus had consented to Lily's incessant and excited demands, and ordered a new set of robes made. It was a no-nonsense sort of thing – long sleeves and a slashed front, with an underlayer of tulle and an embroidered design down the front. Remus flat-out refused to wear a veil of any sort, or any make-up or jewelry, but Sirius noted, through vaguely teary eyes, that Lily had bullied him into wearing some sort of gloss over his lips. Looking at him, Sirius swore that he would give up every single vice he'd ever treasured. He imagined the start of a 'brave new world', so to speak, and saw the future changing, mutating itself to accommodate them. Cities would curl close around them, and forests would clear themselves, Sirius knew, in honor of their union.

After the somewhat lengthy reception, a rather weary Remus allowed himself to be carried out of the dining hall in Sirius' arms, attempting to escape a crowd of drunken well-wishers. They rounded a bend just as Frank Longbottom shouted: "There they are!" and Sirius Apparated, taking Remus with him.

A friend of Remus' at the Ministry department for housing had managed to procure them a sizeable ranch-style home, and Sirius gently set Remus down and peered around. They'd arrived in the living room, as planned, and the place looked cosy enough – wooden floors and rather high ceilings. There was even a piano nestled in the far corner, though Sirius mentally made a note to Transfigure it to a less ostentatious colour than black. It reminded him too much of the one in his childhood home. At the moment, however, he was preoccupied with getting upstairs and seeing what the bedroom was like.

"Sirius…"

"Yes?"

"Would you play for me?"

Sirius whirled, the blood (and alcohol he'd consumed) rushing to his forehead. He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple. "W-what?"

Remus looked bewildered and slightly pale – obviously exhausted – as he lie down on one of the couches and rubbed a hand over his face, smearing his eyeliner slightly. "I'm tired, play for me."

"Don't you want to get up to bed, then? If you're tired?"

"Don't _you_ want to try out the piano?" Remus smiled at him, propping his chin on the couch's arm. "I had it specially ordered for you…James was always talking about how brilliant you used to be."

"But you're tired."

"So sing me to sleep." He rolled over in a lazy sort of way, twisting the gauzy material of the robes about his slim body. Sirius' lips pursed.

"Alright."

He went and sat at the piano, tucking his hair behind his ears. He was still wearing his formal robes and felt vaguely as if he were performing in front of some kind of audience, as he often had in his youth for company at Yule or other occasions. "What shall I play?"

"Oh, anything, I don't care."

Trying to ignore the soft twisting in his gut, Sirius let his fingers move mechanically across the keys, playing some subconsciously-forgotten tune, each chord spilling sound like streamers of sweet, musty air out across the floor. He continued playing until he felt a curious prickling down the back of his neck and turned slightly to see Remus approaching. His long robes created the illusion that he had no feet, and his whitish face was smiling as he placed his hands on Sirius' shoulders and began to sing:

"_Quand vous mourrez de nos amours  
Si trop peu vous reste de moi ne me demandez pas pourquoi  
Dans les mensonges qui suivraient  
Nous ne serions ni beaux ni vrais mourez de mort trees vive  
Que je vous suive."_

With a little cry, Sirius wrenched his fingers from the piano and shook the pale, pincing hands away, finally realising what he had been playing at all along.


End file.
